Fierce Wanderer Read Free

up.
    “Who’s this?” Mav asked.
    “I don’t know,” Blake said.
    Maverick frowned and ran a hand through the spikes of his dark brown hair. “She’s bleeding. Did you tell Jude—”
    “Yes, dammit, I told Jude. In a voicemail.”
    “He’ll be pissed.” Maverick stepped aside. “Put her in your room. I don’t want her blood smelling up the couch.”
    Blake shook his head. “Shut up, Mav,” but he took the woman to his bedroom. “A little help?” he called down the stairs.
    Maverick loped up with a cat’s grace. “What?”
    “Can you grab some towels, and the first aid kit?”
    Maverick grumbled. Blake could hear him the whole time, rummaging around in the bathroom down the hall. “I’ll bet my Boba Fett action figure this human causes all kinds of trouble.”
    “Shut up, Mav.” Blake laid her out on his bed. He almost never brought women here—his brothers insisted on some code of keeping humans as far away as possible, so most of his hook-ups happened somewhere else. A motel, the woman’s apartment. In a tent under the stars… He didn’t like how right it felt to see her in here. Her dark hair fanned across his pillow. He slipped off her sandals, trying to make her more comfortable.
    Who was she, though? She didn’t have a purse, just the duffel. He eased the zipper open and looked inside. Underwear. He grinned. She wore the sexy stuff, bikinis that covered her ass but had lace cut-outs or sheer fabric. Damn. What was he doing again? Oh yeah, a wallet. ID. He felt papers, so he pulled them out. The photos were spilling out of the file folder, so he glanced through. Pictures of a man handing a package to someone else. More pictures of the same man, passing over an envelope. A payoff? Some kind of exchange? All of the photos included the same man, taking and receiving things from various people, some of them gaunt, with the stretched skin appearance he associated with meth addicts. Drug deals?
    He shoved the folder back into her bag and felt around for a wallet or purse. There. He flipped open the wallet, and her face grinned up at him from her driver’s license. She was Hera Watterson, a twenty-four-year-old organ donor, from Winston, California. Terrible photo. He wondered if she was vain, if she tried to hide it from people.
    The front door didn’t slam, but Blake could feel the change of air pressure when it opened and closed again. Jude was back.

Chapter Five
    When Hera woke, her arm was bandaged. The man who’d rescued her, the one who drove the white truck, was pacing at one end of the room. A man sat next to her, putting away the medical supplies. His hair was light brown, and he wore an angry expression. He had a similar, confident look about him to the guy who’d brought her here, but instead of making her want to draw closer to him, she wanted to shrink away.
    “Drink that,” he said gruffly, gesturing to a glass of water.
    Great bedside manner. She reached over with her good arm and brought the water to her lips. She hadn’t even realized how thirsty she was.
    “You didn’t lose too much blood, Blake did a good tourniquet. There’s some ibuprofen for the pain.”
    “Nah, I’m good,” she said. “That stuff makes me nauseous.”
    The man shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He stood up with the first aid kit and walked out of the room.
    “So you’re Blake?” she said to the other guy.
    “Yeah, and you’re Hera.”
    Her eyes went wide with fear. “How do you know my name?”
    “Relax,” he said, “I looked for your wallet. I was wondering if there was someone I should call.”
    “You didn’t call anyone, did you?”
    “No. Do you want to tell me what kind of trouble you’re in?”
    He looked trustworthy, and she felt safe here, but she shook her head. “Not really. I just want to get to Reno.”
    “How does your arm feel?”
    She tried to move it, and winced.
    “Do you want me to get Jude? He can find some other meds for you.”
    “No, I think Mr. Bedside Manner